


Sulfur

by FrostysaurusRekt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror - Transformation, Cult Horror, Hunter Hanzo Shimada, Hunter Jesse McCree, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Werewolf Hanzo Shimada, Werewolf Jesse McCree, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21653521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostysaurusRekt/pseuds/FrostysaurusRekt
Summary: It’s just a theory.Until it’s not.Hanzo isn’t sure he’s right until he’s on the ground, a throbbing sensation at the back of his head, his vision going dark. There have to be illicit magics at play for these cultists to get the jump on him. Onthem.To knock him to the ground, incapacitate the both of them, and begin dragging Jesse away.-McHanzo Werewolf/Hunter AUCompleted for the Rising Moon Digital Fanzine
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 6
Kudos: 173





	Sulfur

**Author's Note:**

> I created this fic for the Rising Moon Digital Fanzine.
> 
> As a note of warning, there is the illusion of character death in this fic, but there is no ACTUAL death. There is some body horror and vaguely described violence, so please take care.

It’s fall. The wind is chilled and seeps into one’s bones. It foretells of a sharp winter coming soon, unusual in this area.

Two men exit a building— a bar which comically dresses itself up as a saloon, complete with cheesy swinging doors and faux gas lamps. The taller of the pair hunkers against the crisp wind. He sticks a long cigarette between his lips and cups a hand to his face to protect his lighter’s weak flame.

Successful, he takes quick, rapid puffs to keep the cherry lit before standing up straight. He offers the light to his companion, whose collar is turned up against the cold, obscuring his face. He accepts the shared cigarette, taking a deep drag, relaxing.

At once, they begin to walk. In sync, like they’ve been doing this all their lives; as though their minds and bodies were one. Without words, they press their elbows against each other, passing the smoke between them.

They talk in hushed tones, eyes passing over the civilians of the small town. Wary. Aware of being watched and watching in return.

“You’d think they’d be more eager to help,” The tall one gruffs, attempting to blow a smoke ring and failing.

His companion nods, a subtle thing. “It is as if they are ignoring the problem.” He blows a perfect ring of smoke.

“Show off.” He mutters, blowing at the ring and scattering it in the air. “Maybe they think we’re the problem, Hanzo.”

Hanzo shrugs at the suggestion. “Or fearful of what might be done to them.” He looks out ahead of them, eyes locking onto nothing in the distance. “After all, fear is powerful, Jesse.”

Their serious tone fades. They discuss dinner – order in? eat out? – and what might come afterward. Jesse has half a mind to leave the town to the thriving cultists. So far, it seems that no one in town wants to help them.

A lot of “I didn’t see anythin’” and “You’re talkin’ crazy”. But no answers. No hints to the problem.

They can’t even find their contact, who sent a simple message to the hunters:  _ Please help us, before they damn us all _ .

A brief investigation revealed a cultist influence in the area, far past a bud which would be easy to nip. Their presence is both elusive but oppressive. Eyes everywhere, bodies nowhere.

Hanzo believes there is something bigger at play. These things just  _ don’t _ spring up overnight. Normal people don’t  _ just  _ obtain magics. Something, someone, is pulling the strings.

It’s just a theory.

Until it’s not.

Hanzo isn’t sure he’s right until he’s on the ground, a throbbing sensation at the back of his head, his vision going dark. There have to be illicit magics at play for these cultists to get the jump on him. On  _ them _ .

To knock him to the ground, incapacitate the both of them, and begin dragging Jesse away.

He reaches out weakly, sharp claws digging into the concrete sidewalk as he tries to crawl after Jesse. A growl tears from his throat, soft and gurgling, tempered by the sway of the darkness that begins to swarm him.

The cultists have made a drastic mistake today.

Taking Hanzo Shimada’s mate.

———- 

Hanzo wakes in their rented room. For a moment, he believes it was all a nightmare; that Jesse is in the bathroom and will come sauntering in to rudely wake Hanzo up.

He rolls over and attempts to wash the film of fear off. He inhales deeply, seeking out the scent of his mate to assure him that Jesse is there.

There is only the cold scent of antiseptic and laundry detergent so pungent that it burns his nose.

Hanzo bolts upright, looks around the room and his heart begins to hammer against his ribs.

All of his belongings are right where he left them, but Jesse’s are not. They are all missing. Not a trace of the other wolf has been left.

His head throbs angrily, reminding him of his injury. It won’t kill him, but it tells Hanzo enough— he hadn’t dreamt anything. Jesse was well and truly taken.

It takes scant minutes for Hanzo to throw on clothes— ignoring the indignant burn of having been stripped before deposited in his bed by strangers— and run out the door. He takes the stairs, two steps at a time, down to the main room of the tavern. Hanzo approaches the bar too fast, colliding into it and winding himself.

He must look a sight— the tavernkeep hesitates to approach him.

“The man I was with, where is he?” Hanzo demands, a growl rising from the pit of fear growing in his gut. He is not easily scared, but Jesse is not so easily taken either.

The tavernkeep tilts her head. “Who?”

“The man I have been with.” The whole time they’ve been in the godforsaken town. Jesse, his  _ partner _ , has always been by his side, and there was no need for them to separate.

“I’m sorry, hon, I don’t know who—”

Hanzo slams his fist on the bar, all noise stops. “Do not play coy with me!” He shouts, “My partner. The man I came here with.”

A man down the bar makes an apologetic grunt. “Fella, don’t know how deep in the drink you’ve been, but you’ve been alone since you got here. Ain’t no one else but you.”

The tavernkeep pulls out a ledger, the one that both Hanzo and Jesse signed when they arrived. She spins it toward him.

Jesse’s name is no longer in the space above his own.

Hanzo doesn’t spend a second longer under too many prying eyes. Liars, all of them. He tears out of the tavern and begins his search.

He starts on the street where he and Jesse had been discussing something as mundane as dinner when they were taken by surprise. People now bustle about, paying him little mind. It’s almost as if nothing happened.

For a moment, Hanzo wonders if he’s dreamt the whole thing. In his loneliness after his exile, after the stress of learning to be a wolf on his own, did he imagine a partner who would understand that plight? A partner who could  _ forgive  _ him?

He sees blood. It doesn’t wash away easily.

Hanzo kneels to the ground, hunched over and inhales deeply, ignoring the people gaping at him. The coppery scent of blood and the dirt-smell of the earth wash over him, but behind it, is the scent of Jesse. His partner, real.

Real and  _ missing _ .

He tries for logic first, following the scent as best he can.

But it fades quickly. The wound was likely shallow and didn’t bleed too much or for very long. This both comforts and frightens Hanzo— they took Jesse alive because they  _ wanted _ him alive.

He can’t figure out for what, but his mind unhelpfully supplies plenty of theories. Some are based off his mother’s old tales, and some are from horror stories of what other hunters have witnessed. It ranges from worship to hatred, and none of them have a happy ending.

When the trail grows cold, he abandons all reason within himself.

Hanzo gives over to his instincts, lets himself be guided by the wisdom of all the wolves who came before him.

There’s no easy way to explain it — like a gut feeling, but one he senses with his whole body. His heart and mind are in tune, guiding him down streets he never would have thought to explore.

The trail picks up again just outside a park.

There are drag marks in the dirt path, boot heels digging furrows into the earth.

The beaten path seems never ending, but he follows it faithfully until he reaches the yawning chasm of a cave. Tucked away, innocent at a distance; dark enough to scare others away from delving inside.

Not Hanzo.

He sees claw marks, just beyond the threshold, and a scrap of red fabric that he  _ knows _ : Jesse’s beloved serape. The one he’s bundled around them on cold evenings, a comfort and convenience.

Jesse is inside, and Hanzo  _ will _ find him.

———- 

The cave is damp, moisture trapped within the caverns from rains past. The ground is slick with a combination of hard dirt and an overlay of wet dust, just saturated enough to be considered some form of mud.

The earthy scent is unmistakable, choking almost, and barely conceals the decaying matter. The sweetness is cloying, pungent but enticing in the same strange manner as a skunk on the road — a second sniff is unwise, but taken regardless. Abhorrent yet intriguing.

Hanzo can only press forward, breathe deeply and hope that beyond the blanket of smells, he can find Jesse again.

His heart aches. Fear and a flutter of hope makes it race. Pounding thunderously, Hanzo almost imagines he can feel it pressing against his lungs and sternum — yearning to find its other half, to bring his mate back home safe and sound.

The tunnel of the cave goes farther back than Hanzo could imagine. For too long, as he treks deeper, he worries he’s in the wrong place. That his instincts have led him astray and Jesse is  _ gone _ .

It seems innocent, in a terrible sort of way, when he finds his first shred of evidence that Jesse is deeper within.

Jesse’s hat.

Battered, dusty, tossed aside like the cowboy would never do. It’s his prized possession. Possibly the one thing he holds closer than Hanzo. A memento from the past. 

The last thing he has from before his affliction.

———- 

_ Hanzo is standing vigil over their campsite, the night cool around him. The wolf's eyes see clearly, sharply. There is nothing that moves between the trees that he does not see.  _

_ Blessedly, all is still. _

_ He looks up at the moon, full and heavy in the sky. Her presence calms him, reminds him of the scope of life. Small; not insignificant, but rather a piece in the grand scheme of life. _

_ The scent of the pine is nearly overwhelming, pungent. Hanzo much prefers the gentle smell of cedar. _

_ He's hardly prepared for the wet tongue that suddenly laves up his neck and cheek. _

_ "Jesse!" He shouts. _

_ A large maned wolf trots around him in a circle, prancing happily as Hanzo wipes the saliva from his face. Jesse stops in front of him, flopping over and exposing his belly, tail wagging slowly in the grass. _

_ "Do not startle me like that." _

_ Jesse snaps his jaws, sassing him with harsh huffs of breath. _

_ "You are being rude." _

_ The maned wolf tilts his head, comically large ears standing to attention. Curious. Questioning. _

_ Hanzo scowls and rises from his post, stalking away. _

_ Jesse scrambles to his paws and follows after. He nudges Hanzo's hand with a wet nose and when there’s no response, he does so again. _

_ This time, Hanzo swats at him. "Jesse, cease." He turns around and stares down his partner who looks taken aback. "Meet me as I am or not at all." _

_ Jesse backs off. _

_ The rest of the night, Hanzo is left alone. When the sun rises, Jesse takes watch - a man again - and Hanzo sleeps. _

_ He's awoken by large arms circling around him, a warm body pressing to his back and a nose pressed against the skin of his jaw and ear. _

_ "M'sorry." Jesse rumbles. "Didn't know ya didn't like— " _

_ "It is not about what I like." Hanzo interrupts. "It is considered insulting to not meet another wolf in the form they are in." _

_ "Didn't know that." _

_ The words are quiet, muffled against Hanzo's skin. He rolls over, faces Jesse, meeting earnest brown eyes. A sheepish expression is across his mate's face and Hanzo furrows his brow. _

_ "How could you not know? Surely you grew up with your packmates— " _

_ "No." Jesse says forcefully. "I... I— shit." _

_ Hanzo waits, tries to read the answers in Jesse's face. There is something like uncertainty which sits heavy over his eyes, and there is a frustrated tilt to the corners of his lips. _

_ "I wasn't born a wolf." _

_ Hanzo stills. Having grown up in a large pack, having only known other packs in the area, he knew that turned wolves were rare. Humans rarely survived the process of turning. _

_ "Okay." He replies lamely. _

_ Silence hangs, awkward and thick. Jesse looks embarrassed, almost ashamed , and Hanzo doesn't know how to approach this subject. He has never seen a turned wolf, much less known one. _

_ Jesse rolls over this time, turning away from Hanzo and curling up, pulling away from him. Hanzo, acutely and painfully, feels the loss. Deep in his chest, his heart squeezes from it as he watches Jesse withdraw. _

_ If he hadn't known it before, he knows now: he would do anything for Jesse McCree. _

_ He slides his hands along Jesse's arms slowly, carefully, and inches up behind him until they are touching again. He brushes his lips back and forth across Jesse's shoulder, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest. He was never very good at soothing others, but for Jesse…"When?" He whispers against Jesse's skin. _

_ Jesse huffs, sinks into Hanzo's embrace. "Musta been about sixteen. Seventeen? Dunno really, never kept real good track of my age." _

_ Hanzo squeezes him tighter, closer, like he can ward off whatever nightmares brew in his mate's mind. "I will teach you then." Hanzo says— knowing what he does now, Jesse's behavior makes sense. What he thought was eccentricity was truly just a lack of knowledge. "So that others will not hurt you." _

_ He hopes it comes across as he means it. That Hanzo knows now and can accept more strange things from his mate, but others will not. Out in the world, there are men and wolves more violent than them. Ones who will not take kindly to insult. _

_ Jesse cranes his neck back, steals a kiss with a small smile. "Always lookin' out for me, sweetness." _

_ Hanzo grins, tucks closer to Jesse. "I know you would do the same for me." _

———- 

Hanzo nearly trips up as he jogs to the fallen Stetson. His heart is seizing; his body cold as numbing fear creeping up his spine. He crushes the hat to his chest, holds it tight like he yearns to hold his mate. Keep him safe, and bring hell to those who would dare hurt him.

He keeps it with him as he travels deeper, either in his hands or on his head. He rubs his claws gently along the worn leather when the anxiety overcomes him, when he worries that he will never find Jesse. At least he is in the right place, he reminds himself.

The cave walls eventually dry out , leaving dusty stone that burn his eyes as he disturbs the loose silt. The occasional loose rock kicks up even more, coating Hanzo in a dirty yellow sheen.

His keen senses are the only reason he spots the next sign of Jesse. Buried beneath a pile of rocks, nearly blending in and covered in the earthy dust, is Jesse’s serape.

Without hesitation, Hanzo yanks the serape from under the pile. The cave shifts around him and he clutches the fabric and hat to his chest as he waits for it to settle.

His panicked state, his cold frenzy to find his lover, is Hanzo’s equilibrium. Finding the serape only steels his resolve more.

Jesse is here. He has to be.

Even if he’s just a body, Hanzo will bring him home.

He owes him that much.

———- 

_ Hanzo has never liked surprises. He enjoys the outcome, the gift, the gesture, but he despises the anticipation. _

_ Jesse is lucky that Hanzo adores him. He keeps his earbuds in as Jesse arranges a charter plane, and he accepts the blindfold on descent. He trusts his mate to guide him, to take care of him. _

_ There is no one else of whom he can say the same. _

_ He dances his fingers over Jesse's knuckles, their hands interlocked as Jesse winds him down what Hanzo can only assume are streets of smooth stone with paths worn by the long-lived denizens. He can smell the warm broth of soups, with all of their dressings. _

_ There is something sweet too, overpowered by the lack of fresh air rushing through tightly packed buildings to clear out the scent of people and creatures and food. It is slightly overwhelming, but he remains quiet, curious. _

_ Eventually, they stop. He stumbles into Jesse's side, who catches him with an arm across his chest. The only reason he does not snap at his mate for the careless act is because he is loathe to ever part with his warm touch. _

_ He leans into that warmth as Jesse slides around him; a sunflower yearning to face the sun. _

_ Calloused fingers push under his blindfold, rucking up the material. Hanzo is still blinded; Jesse's palms rest over his eyes. _

_ "Ready?" _

_ "Do I have a choice?" _

_ Jesse laughs, nudges them a few more steps before dropping his hands. _

_ It takes a moment for Hanzo's eyes to adjust to the light, and he is left speechless. _

_ Old buildings stand tall and proud before him, decrepit as they are. Cherry blossom trees grow rampant and wild, their roots pushing up wooden walkways and cracking foundations as they reclaim the grounds. There are deep grooves, claw marks, embedded in stone and wood alike, but Hanzo does not linger on them. _

_ He takes in a deep breath and smells only the trees and a faint stale scent from settled dust. For once - for as long as he has been alive - there is no scent of wolves on Shimada grounds. _

_ He turns to Jesse, finding him watching with soft, affectionate eyes.. He doesn't so much as look at his surroundings, as though the grounds mean nothing compared to Hanzo. _

_ Hanzo rushes him, buries his face against his mate's broad chest and squeezes his arms around Jesse's waist until the other wolf grunts in discomfort. _

_ It was a conversation long ago, before they mated. Homesickness that they attempted to curb at the bottom of a bottle. _

_ He wanted to return to Hanamura, to find comfort underneath the pink blossoms as he did when he was a boy. _

_ But he does not find it. _

_ He knows, as Jesse's arms wrap around him once more, that his home is with this man, this made-wolf. A wild thing that never ceases to amaze Hanzo with his kindness and his ruthlessness in equal parts- doling them out in appropriate measures to those who deserve it. _

_ Hanzo once had a home in Hanamura. _

_ And he knows now, better than ever before, that his heart's home is in the arms of Jesse McCree. _

———- 

The rush that washes over Hanzo as he finally, finally,  _ finally _ finds Jesse is indescribable. There are too many emotions that pulse through him all at once.

The world around him slows, and each heartbeat brings a new detail into focus. What feels like millennia is only a second.

Jesse is bound to the earth. Shackles wrap about his wrists and ankles; thick heavy chains lead to large metal spikes which keep him kneeling and hunched over, back straining. His hair hangs in his face, and the gentle heaving of his back is the only sign that he is alive.

There is something black along his spine— scrawled words and symbols in a language Hanzo doesn’t know or even recognize the styling of. When he tries to focus on the writing, to copy and find a translation later, his vision blurs.

The ink – at least, Hanzo hopes it is – is drawn in lines from the words, passing over Jesse like the shadow of a cage against his skin and to the ground where it fans out. Painted on solid stone are more symbols and drawn eyes. It spirals out, geometric in some places, smooth and flowing in others.

Eventually, circles — ten of them. Within each, a figure. There is no uniform between the cultists, beyond the deep red candles they hold in their palms and the face splitting, manic grins they all share. Delight. Twisted enthusiasm.

Hanzo doesn’t notice they have fallen silent; the blood rushing through his ears is too loud. He itches to get to Jesse. His claws dig into the stone wall as he waits— he can’t go in blind, not when his mate is bound like that. Not when he doesn’t know what interrupting their ritual will do.

A clichéd, hooded figure draws out from the darkness, steps between two members and extends their hands. With a candle in one, they all slowly form a chain, holding the dripping wax pillars between them.

The hooded figure utters a word too quietly to hear and a bright light consumes the cavern.

Then, there is nothing.

Shock leaves Hanzo cold and far more terrified than ever before.

The grief threatens to take his legs out from under him as he realizes that the light is  _ fire _ .

Jesse, in the center, screams so loud that his voice shatters at the end, cut short.

The rage is quick to follow and Hanzo tells himself to mourn later. He can act on vengeance now. It boils his blood, forces the wolf to start breaking through.

Wild yellow eyes fixate on the cultists as they turn to him, alerted by the rumble in his chest that grows into a steady, growling war cry. They’ve made a grave mistake.

They’re on him fast, a legioned frenzy against one. Hanzo is sure he takes out one, maybe two, before he’s overwhelmed. Their weight pins him down, their strength more than his thrashing can compete against.

He feels helpless and as quick as it came, the anger is gone and leaves sorrow in its wake.

Mashed into the ground, his head is turned to see the steady pyre of his mate.

Hanzo watches with horror as Jesse moves within the flames and the cultists yank him to his feet, numb. He doesn’t consider fighting back. Not anymore.

Whatever the ritual was, it’s proving fruitful at the cost of Jesse’s life.

A beast grows out of Jesse’s hunched over form. It strains against its bonds until the spikes rip from the earth and it lets out an inhuman cry of triumph. Like a wolfsong, but twisted and warped and Hanzo shudders at the sound.

The fire sloughs off of the beast as it grows and grows. Lupine in form, it stands on two long legs, arms unnaturally long; abnormally shaped.

The fur is russet red. The same of Jesse’s pelt; of the man sacrificed to summon this hellish being.

Horns jut from the beast’s skull, a crown befitting such a creature. Obsidian scales cover the hound’s broad chest- as it heaves, heavy smoke flows from it’s mouth and nostrils. The smell of sulfur is thick and cloying, the vapor so dense that it  _ sinks _ rather than rises.

It turns to the side, revealing spikes, stone black like its scales, that travel down its spine. Down, down, down into the thick base of a tail that drapes to the floor. The tail is not of a wolf, but of something entirely different— long, prehensile, whiplike— with a spade at the end that is just as dangerous as the hound’s gleaming black claws.

And just as Hanzo is sure he’s seen everything the nightmare has to offer, eyes begin opening along its body. Its shoulders are a mass of luminous, amber eyes that all swivel in different directions, locking onto the cultists.

The cultists release Hanzo and drop to their knees, bowing to it.  _ Worshipping _ this hound of hell.

The hooded figure, the leader if Hanzo had to hazard a guess, steps up to the beast, chin raised defiantly. Posturing as if they intend to command it.

If there is one thing that Hanzo’s years as a hunter have taught him, it’s that demons are  _ always _ the ones in charge.

A great paw knocks the leader to the ground and the hound is upon them. At the first sickening sound of a feast, the other cultists begin to scream and run. This is not what they expected, not what they were promised.

A few flee past Hanzo, knocking him onto his ass as he watches the horrible display. Like watching a train wreck in slow motion: He knows what’s happening, knows how terrible it is, yet he doesn’t look away.

He  _ can’t. _

The gruesome tableau has him transfixed as the beast quickly strikes down the remaining panicked cultists.

Soon enough, it is just the two of them left.

It’s been only scant minutes since he entered the chamber— too little time to process everything that’s happened. It’s hard to compartmentalize quick enough to get himself to safety, not when he was already so compromised in the first place.

The hellhound sees him, every eye on the beast zeroing in.

Hanzo reasons that it’s foolish to run— he would be easily caught. The monstrous fiend would overtake him in a fight.

So he accepts his fate. It’s better this way, after all. He is unsure that he can cope with losing Jesse.

He closes his eyes and prays it is quick.

The beast nears him, its body pulsing with the heat of the fire it was born from.

Unbearable and scalding until, suddenly, it lessens into a more comfortable warmth. A comforting embrace. A hot tongue drags against his cheek.

Hanzo doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch as the beast plays with its food. The hound huffs and presses its wet nose against the same spot. Incessantly, it noses at him, nearly climbing over him to push further and further.

A whine.

Hanzo opens his eyes, stares down the muzzle of the creature to eyes that are too similar to Jesse’s. Golden. Enchanting.

A smaller, tentative lick on Hanzo’s other cheek. The beast slowly shuffles forward, resting its large head on Hanzo’s shoulder with another whine.

His hands shake, nervous for the first time since he was a young boy, as Hanzo reaches up and digs his hands into the hound’s mane.

The beast goes limp and drops its weight onto Hanzo, pushing him back onto the dirt.

He dares to hope, though it can’t possibly be true. “Jesse?”

The whip-like tail wags eagerly, and the beast is careful to not strike Hanzo with it. Something rumbles in its chest, an attempt to soothe.

Unfortunately, it has quite the opposite effect and Hanzo is frozen with the release of grief— overcome with a mixture of relief and fear.

The unknown lays overtop him.

The known wears a new pelt. 

Hanzo yanks on the thick fur between his fingers, pulls the beast closer. He feels the heartbeat from inside the hound— his mate, the love of his life. A wolf for whom Hanzo would move Heaven, Earth, and Hell to find.

Jesse smells of sulfur, fire, and brimstone now, but inside that massive chest beats the same heart.


End file.
